Fic: Something Worth Having (8/?)
Title: Something Worth Having (8/?)
Author: mrstater
Fandom: Downton Abbey
Characters & Pairings: Mary Crawley/Richard Carlisle, Isobel Crawley
Rating & Warnings: M for references to power dynamics in relationships; adultery; PTSD; terminal illness; widowhood; sex (in future chapters); spoilers for S3
Summary: When Mary moves to London to escape painful memories of Matthew at Downton, she must face more than grief as former suitors and her estranged sister come back into her life.
Chapter Word Count: 3242 words
Chapter Summary: Interviewing a prospective land agent for Haxby Park forces Mary and Richard to ask long overdue questions about themselves. But will the answers violate the terms of their agreement?
Author's Note: As always, I am so grateful for the continued support and enthusiasm of my faithful readers, and for vladnyrki, who is essentially the land agent to my Haxby Park. ;)
Previous Chapters |
May, 1922
8. Unfinished Business
Within days of their conversation, Tom contacted Mary about a Mr Stephen Battle whom he thought would meet Sir Richard's requirements for a land agent. However, Richard's schedule would not readily accommodate an interview with the man.
"I thought getting Haxby off your hands was a matter of urgency?" Mary sniped at him over the phone, vexed at first by his lack of immediacy, and then at herself for being vexed. Why should it be any concern of hers when Richard dealt with his estate?
Of course he'd responded in kind: "You may recall I have a career of my own, which keeps me more than sufficiently occupied without doing the job of another man." He added, more pleasantly, "I like his name, though. Battle. That's promising."
"Mm. Or perhaps Tom's idea of a joke."
"How so?"
Mary cast about for an explanation that did not involve the truth which she had almost revealed to him, of Tom's remark about having rough friends.
"An Irish revolutionary putting forth a candidate called Battle? Even you can't miss the humour in that." Over his protest, she added, "Or it could be ironic. Mr Battle may turn out to be meek as a lamb."
Indeed, the latter seemed likely to prove the case when Mary first laid eyes on him nearly a fortnight later, as Miss Fields showed him into Richard's office: a man of already inconsequential stature, who leaned heavily on a cane and thumped along on an artificial leg.
But after seeing Mr Battle out after the interview, saying he would be in touch within the next day or two, Richard sauntered back into the office, rubbing his palms together and smirking at Mary, who stood at the corner of his desk. "More like a wolf in sheep's clothing."
"A quality only you would find desirable in a prospective employee," she said, and when his grin stretched, apparently pleased with this assessment, she couldn't stop a smile of her own. "I'm surprised you didn't hire him on the spot."
"I was tempted." Richard stepped nearer to her, slipping his hands into his trouser pockets. "I thought it prudent to talk it over with you first."
"Oh." Mary schooled her face not to show how pleased she was by his compliment. "Well. I thought--"
Richard held up a hand. "Over luncheon, perhaps? I owe you. For the last time we…" His eyes darted away from hers, and he flexed his jaw. "…did business together."
I thought it was me who was indebted, Mary thought, but did not say. "The circumstances were…rather different."
"Indeed. Never mind. It was a stupid idea."
"I'd like to, Richard, really I would, but I couldn't be seen out with you."
"Certainly not," he said, meeting her gaze again, relief washing the lines from his sharp features. "That's why I took the liberty of having food brought in."
Mary did not manage to squelch a snort of laughter.
"What?"
"Do you have an employee whose sole job is to do things of that sort? Edith believes so."
Richard rubbed his fingers over the curling hair above his collar, but his self-consciousness, for once, did not get the better of his temper. "You and Edith talked about me?"
His eyes flashed, and so did a dimple as one corner of his mouth curved upward. He was appallingly smug, and Mary shook her head as she turned to pick up the telephone receiver.
"I'll just ring Mrs Crawley and let her know I'll be later than expected, if you don't mind."
He did not, but Isobel acquiesced to the change of plan with some reticence. "Of course, my dear, if you must. Only..."
"Yes?"
"George was taking his morning nap when you came down to breakfast, and Nanny will have put him to bed for the afternoon by the time you've had your luncheon."
Mary flushed at that, but she was conscious of Richard lingering in the doorway to the room adjoining his office and kept her tone glib. "Perhaps someone ought to speak to him about how it's common practice to sleep at night and be awake during the day."
She put down the receiver with rather more force than she meant to, belying her mood; as she swept past Richard, he caught her elbow, gently, and looked down at her, searching her gaze. Mary averted her eyes, dropping them to her sleeve and the way his long fingers curled lightly around it, pale against the black, his thumb stroking lightly over her forearm. Her brain told her she ought to pull away, but her body would not comply. Richard's warmth penetrated the fabric, and his voice rumbled through her when he spoke low.
"If you're required at home we can do lunch another time."
"Thank you, Richard. I'm not." She turned her head, taking in the sight of a tea table draped with a white cloth and a decorated with a bowl of hydrangeas. "It would be a shame to let this lovely meal go to waste."
The tips of his fingers remained at her elbow as he escorted her to the table; when he seated her, his hands brushed the sides of her shoulders.
"Are we celebrating?" Mary asked, her eye passing over the green salad and sea bass and alighting on the bottle of champagne Richard picked up as he stepped around the table to his place.
"That's up to you," he replied, uncorking it. "Do you think I should hire Mr Battle?"
She thanked him for the champagne he handed her, sipping after she swallowed a bite of salad. "My only concern is his leg. Overseeing twelve thousand acres will require a deal of riding or driving."
"He says he can manage."
"He says."
Leaning back in his chair, Richard regarded her over his glass, eyes bright with the same look of admiration Mary had seen when she looked over his accounts in Papa's office. "Can you find the time to check that his references say the same?"
"If you need me to."
"I do. You're so much more charming on the phone than I am."
"Except it's not you and I who must be charming in such a situation, is it?"
Their eyes met across the table, and they shared a quiet laugh. After the sound faded their gazes held, until Mary felt a prickle at her cheeks and saw the Adam's apple bob down into Richard's starched collar. He cleared his throat and averted his attention to his sea bass, and they ate in silence for what seemed like a long time.
At length, Richard said, "If you like what his references have to say, I'll make him an offer. Mr Battle's experience will, I think, be very useful."
He talked on, but Mary only half-listened as most of it was a reiteration of the interview. Stephen Battle was the son of a land agent and, though he had not followed in his father's profession prior to the War, the loss of his leg and the failure of so many estates made a return to his roots prudent. He'd worked as an itinerant agent, traveling throughout the countryside and pulling a number of estates from the brink of financial ruin to sell to tycoons who could afford them; the only one he had not saved he claimed was due to the owner's refusal to make the necessary changes. At one point, it had seemed that Mr Battle was interviewing Richard for the position of employer rather than the other way around.
"Mary?"
"Hm?"
"Isn't the sea bass to your liking?"
Her eyes darted to Richard's plate, the last bite of the bass on his fork. "Yes of course." He'd remembered it was her favourite luncheon food.
"You were pushing it around on your plate."
Mary speared a bit and brought it to her mouth, but sighed without taking a bite and laid her fork back on her plate, pulling her hands into her lap beneath the tablecloth.
"A number of the old country houses seem to be similarly afflicted. I suspected as much when I looked over Haxby's accounts that the situation was much like Downton's, and Mr Branson confirmed it. So it wasn't…"
She looked down at her hands and saw that her right thumb twisted the wedding band on her fourth finger so hard that the diamond of the engagement ring left an imprint on the pad. She curled her fingers into fists and held them still on her skirt.
"Papa truly did not manage it so terribly as I believed."
As Richard drained his champagne glass he looked out the row of windows that lined one wall, framed in green curtains and sharing the same view as his office. St Paul's rose above the rooftops of the Fleet Street newspaper buildings, towers of smoke chuffing from chimneys as the presses printed the evening editions. He slipped his hand inside his jacket, as if reaching into his pocket, only to withdraw it again, still empty.
"It's moments like this I wish I hadn't given up smoking." He looked at Mary, briefly, before becoming interested in the drop of champagne at the bottom of his glass as he tilted it on its stem. "You needn't feel you must redeem Lord Grantham in my eyes. His incompetence with regard to Downton is the least of the issues I take with him. In any case, I ought never to have spoken unfavourably of him to you."
Mary shook her head. "It's not what you said. Matthew was very quick to lay all the blame on Papa's shoulders. I suppose it's understandable. The blunder with Mama's fortune was entirely his fault. But..."
She thought of what she and Tom had discussed, in addition to land agents--Tom Branson, Socialist, Republican, making allowances for a member of the Establishment.
"Papa only managed the estate as he was raised to. As his father was raised to. As generations before him were raised to. Now that I know this I'm surprised Mathew came down so hard on Papa. He dealt with him more like--"
More like you would, she nearly blurted out, but caught herself in time. Her stomach twisted into a knot when she remembered how he'd said, You're on my team now. As if the future Earl were at odds with his predecessor. Forcing the future Countess to pick a side. And hadn't that been the centre of their dispute before the wedding? You're not on our side! she'd flung at him. Hadn't marriage to Matthew been meant to bring her and her family together?
"I never would have expected that from him, before the War."
Up until this point, Richard had been listening with an expression of bland interest, his head tilted slightly, but now he held it upright as his eyebrows lifted on his forehead. "What has the War to do with it?"
She was twisting her ring again. Did she really want to discuss this topic with Richard, of all people?
Then again, of all the people she knew, even those she loved best, Richard was the only one she could count on to be completely honest with her.
She took a fortifying drink of champagne and cringed; its sweetness was a good compliment for the meal but not the conversation.
"I presume war is one of those subjects for which feminine sensibilities are too fragile, and reserved for the men over port and cigars?"
"Generally--but do you imagine Lord Grantham and Captain Crawley were keen to discuss it with a known opponent?"
A valid point; Mary's cheeks warmed as she remembered how Granny and Papa blustered about the opinions he'd ventured to voice during that first weekend: He's not even patriotic!
"My friend Mr Napier has expressed views not dissimilar to yours," she said, feeling as if she ought to atone for the embarrassment she'd allowed herself to feel that he was not in uniform--though when they met at Cliveden she'd told him what a relief it was to see white ties and tails instead of redcoats for once. "He served in the cavalry."
"But they are dissimilar to your husband's?"
That was Richard, with his newspaperman's talent for cutting through the superfluity to get to the heart of a matter.
"I wouldn't know," Mary answered. "He never talked about it."
Her heart seemed to hang suspended in the breathless cavern of her chest as Richard studied her, and she tried to keep her face as inscrutable as his was. If he read anything on her features he gave no indication of it. After a moment be pushed back from the table, laid his serviette in the seat of his chair, and strode to the door which led to the anteroom of his offices. She heard him request that their plates be taken away and dessert brought, and as he resumed his place a young woman dressed in smart navy blue--not a maid, but probably one of the junior secretaries--efficiently did his bidding, replacing Mary's untouched sea bass with a slice of lemon tart for which she still had no appetite.
When the girl had gone Richard refilled their champagne glasses, taking a drink before he sliced into his tart with the edge of his fork.
"There's never been a war like the one just fought," he said, "so I couldn't presume to speak to what is considered normal behaviour for our boys who braved the trenches."
Mary had taken a bite of lemon tart to be polite, but the sweetness of it was diminished slightly by the hint of bitterness with which Richard pronounced the last.
"From what I gather," he went on, pausing to chew, "there is no normal. Some of them volunteered to fight, others were made to. Regardless of how they left, none of them came back the same. And I don't refer only to loss of limb or disfigurement. You remember that footman employed at Downton on my first visit?"
"Lang. He was a valet. He spilled soup all over Edith's dress."
"No doubt because he was shell shocked."
"Papa dismissed him because he wasn't up to the job."
"I won't fault him there, as I've had to let a few such cases go myself. Shell shock victims can be a danger to themselves, as well as to others. I'd rather not see my warehouse become the site of more War casualties because insomnia led to improper operation of the machinery, or the noise of the printing presses sent them into hysterics or worse."
"Mr Napier can't be around horses," Mary said. "Racing and riding were his life before."
"As I said, there is no normal."
Mary felt a little light-headed; she told herself it was the champagne on her relatively empty stomach, and not fragile feminine sensibilities. Though how anybody, female or otherwise, could talk about such things and not be affected, she could not imagine.
Perhaps that was why Matthew didn't.
"You must thank God you were in a position to spare your brother being called up," she said. "If you believed in God."
"Indeed. But we seem to have strayed from the topic," Richard said, crossing one leg over the other. "You think Captain Crawley suffered more than temporary paralysis, is that it?"
"I'm hardly qualified to say."
"Why? Because he didn't handle Lord Grantham's feelings with kid gloves?" His cheek muscle twitched, as if in the start of a smile. "I daresay the War jolly well did change him. He was an officer, for Pete's sake. Probably got accustomed to giving orders and having them obeyed without question. I rather relate to that myself."
He chuckled, but Mary silenced him with a look.
"I think I know my husband better than you," she said. "And yes, I am afraid he may have suffered more than he let on."
"I never knew you and him to have difficulty communicating."
It was late…and you two were locked together in the corner of the room, Richard's voice hissed from the recesses of her memory, and Mary retorted, as she had not that dreadful night more than two years before, "Unlike you and me? You were always marvellous at saying what you felt."
"I shouldn't have said that." Richard glanced away. "No digs at your husband, that was the agreement."
"No. You shouldn't. You ought to have told me you loved me before the end. You who can be called many things, but not a liar."
The words flew from her lips without having first formed in her mind, and as Mary heard them she pressed her fingertips to her mouth as if by doing so she could draw them back. It was too late. They had found Richard's ears, too. His face went very pale.
"There was another agreement, wasn't there?" he said. "Not to talk about our past?"
Mary swivelled in her chair, heedless of the serviette fluttering to the floor from her lap like an autumn leaf as she stood and turned her back to Richard and the luncheon table.
"I didn't mean to," she said, drawing her hand from her mouth just enough so that her speech would not be muffled, the tips of her fingers still touching her bottom lip. "This isn't about us. Or you."
"Isn't it?" The legs of Richard's chair scraped on the floor, and the soles of his shoes were ponderous with his slow stride toward her. "In any case you're right. I ought to have told you how I really felt much sooner than I did. And we should have talked about why I didn't before now."
If he could just admit the truth, all four of us might have a chance. Lavinia, too, had found Matthew's communication lacking, though Mary was not about to return down that dark path he had led her to feeling culpable for that young woman's sorrow and death. Thankfully, Richard was there to draw her back to present concerns--as he had been the horrible day they'd laid the poor girl to rest.
"But surely you already know the answer, Mary?"
She could feel the thud of her heart. "Because you knew I didn't love you."
"Right on the mark," said Richard, his voice low and hoarse. "If our feelings were unequal then we couldn't be equals. You'd have had an advantage."
So he'd kept the truth from her. Pretending that love was not a necessary ingredient for a good marriage, or hoping that she might grow to love him. Either way, he had sold at a loss.
"Would it have made any difference? If I had told you?"
"I couldn't have come to love you. Not so long as Matthew Crawley walked the earth."
"Thank you," he said quietly. "I appreciate your honesty."
Mary turned to him. "I didn't answer your question entirely."
Might it have made a difference? No church bells would have chimed in honour of Sir Richard and Lady Mary Carlisle, of that she was certain. But she'd meant it when she apologised to him for using him, and she wanted to believe that she wasn't so mercenary as to use a man who could actually be hurt by her. That she had learned something from the mistakes she'd made with Matthew all those years ago.
"If you'd told me you loved me," she said, "you wouldn't be trying to sell Haxby Park."
Author: mrstater
Fandom: Downton Abbey
Characters & Pairings: Mary Crawley/Richard Carlisle, Isobel Crawley
Rating & Warnings: M for references to power dynamics in relationships; adultery; PTSD; terminal illness; widowhood; sex (in future chapters); spoilers for S3
Summary: When Mary moves to London to escape painful memories of Matthew at Downton, she must face more than grief as former suitors and her estranged sister come back into her life.
Chapter Word Count: 3242 words
Chapter Summary: Interviewing a prospective land agent for Haxby Park forces Mary and Richard to ask long overdue questions about themselves. But will the answers violate the terms of their agreement?
Author's Note: As always, I am so grateful for the continued support and enthusiasm of my faithful readers, and for vladnyrki, who is essentially the land agent to my Haxby Park. ;)
Previous Chapters |
May, 1922
8. Unfinished Business
Within days of their conversation, Tom contacted Mary about a Mr Stephen Battle whom he thought would meet Sir Richard's requirements for a land agent. However, Richard's schedule would not readily accommodate an interview with the man.
"I thought getting Haxby off your hands was a matter of urgency?" Mary sniped at him over the phone, vexed at first by his lack of immediacy, and then at herself for being vexed. Why should it be any concern of hers when Richard dealt with his estate?
Of course he'd responded in kind: "You may recall I have a career of my own, which keeps me more than sufficiently occupied without doing the job of another man." He added, more pleasantly, "I like his name, though. Battle. That's promising."
"Mm. Or perhaps Tom's idea of a joke."
"How so?"
Mary cast about for an explanation that did not involve the truth which she had almost revealed to him, of Tom's remark about having rough friends.
"An Irish revolutionary putting forth a candidate called Battle? Even you can't miss the humour in that." Over his protest, she added, "Or it could be ironic. Mr Battle may turn out to be meek as a lamb."
Indeed, the latter seemed likely to prove the case when Mary first laid eyes on him nearly a fortnight later, as Miss Fields showed him into Richard's office: a man of already inconsequential stature, who leaned heavily on a cane and thumped along on an artificial leg.
But after seeing Mr Battle out after the interview, saying he would be in touch within the next day or two, Richard sauntered back into the office, rubbing his palms together and smirking at Mary, who stood at the corner of his desk. "More like a wolf in sheep's clothing."
"A quality only you would find desirable in a prospective employee," she said, and when his grin stretched, apparently pleased with this assessment, she couldn't stop a smile of her own. "I'm surprised you didn't hire him on the spot."
"I was tempted." Richard stepped nearer to her, slipping his hands into his trouser pockets. "I thought it prudent to talk it over with you first."
"Oh." Mary schooled her face not to show how pleased she was by his compliment. "Well. I thought--"
Richard held up a hand. "Over luncheon, perhaps? I owe you. For the last time we…" His eyes darted away from hers, and he flexed his jaw. "…did business together."
I thought it was me who was indebted, Mary thought, but did not say. "The circumstances were…rather different."
"Indeed. Never mind. It was a stupid idea."
"I'd like to, Richard, really I would, but I couldn't be seen out with you."
"Certainly not," he said, meeting her gaze again, relief washing the lines from his sharp features. "That's why I took the liberty of having food brought in."
Mary did not manage to squelch a snort of laughter.
"What?"
"Do you have an employee whose sole job is to do things of that sort? Edith believes so."
Richard rubbed his fingers over the curling hair above his collar, but his self-consciousness, for once, did not get the better of his temper. "You and Edith talked about me?"
His eyes flashed, and so did a dimple as one corner of his mouth curved upward. He was appallingly smug, and Mary shook her head as she turned to pick up the telephone receiver.
"I'll just ring Mrs Crawley and let her know I'll be later than expected, if you don't mind."
He did not, but Isobel acquiesced to the change of plan with some reticence. "Of course, my dear, if you must. Only..."
"Yes?"
"George was taking his morning nap when you came down to breakfast, and Nanny will have put him to bed for the afternoon by the time you've had your luncheon."
Mary flushed at that, but she was conscious of Richard lingering in the doorway to the room adjoining his office and kept her tone glib. "Perhaps someone ought to speak to him about how it's common practice to sleep at night and be awake during the day."
She put down the receiver with rather more force than she meant to, belying her mood; as she swept past Richard, he caught her elbow, gently, and looked down at her, searching her gaze. Mary averted her eyes, dropping them to her sleeve and the way his long fingers curled lightly around it, pale against the black, his thumb stroking lightly over her forearm. Her brain told her she ought to pull away, but her body would not comply. Richard's warmth penetrated the fabric, and his voice rumbled through her when he spoke low.
"If you're required at home we can do lunch another time."
"Thank you, Richard. I'm not." She turned her head, taking in the sight of a tea table draped with a white cloth and a decorated with a bowl of hydrangeas. "It would be a shame to let this lovely meal go to waste."
The tips of his fingers remained at her elbow as he escorted her to the table; when he seated her, his hands brushed the sides of her shoulders.
"Are we celebrating?" Mary asked, her eye passing over the green salad and sea bass and alighting on the bottle of champagne Richard picked up as he stepped around the table to his place.
"That's up to you," he replied, uncorking it. "Do you think I should hire Mr Battle?"
She thanked him for the champagne he handed her, sipping after she swallowed a bite of salad. "My only concern is his leg. Overseeing twelve thousand acres will require a deal of riding or driving."
"He says he can manage."
"He says."
Leaning back in his chair, Richard regarded her over his glass, eyes bright with the same look of admiration Mary had seen when she looked over his accounts in Papa's office. "Can you find the time to check that his references say the same?"
"If you need me to."
"I do. You're so much more charming on the phone than I am."
"Except it's not you and I who must be charming in such a situation, is it?"
Their eyes met across the table, and they shared a quiet laugh. After the sound faded their gazes held, until Mary felt a prickle at her cheeks and saw the Adam's apple bob down into Richard's starched collar. He cleared his throat and averted his attention to his sea bass, and they ate in silence for what seemed like a long time.
At length, Richard said, "If you like what his references have to say, I'll make him an offer. Mr Battle's experience will, I think, be very useful."
He talked on, but Mary only half-listened as most of it was a reiteration of the interview. Stephen Battle was the son of a land agent and, though he had not followed in his father's profession prior to the War, the loss of his leg and the failure of so many estates made a return to his roots prudent. He'd worked as an itinerant agent, traveling throughout the countryside and pulling a number of estates from the brink of financial ruin to sell to tycoons who could afford them; the only one he had not saved he claimed was due to the owner's refusal to make the necessary changes. At one point, it had seemed that Mr Battle was interviewing Richard for the position of employer rather than the other way around.
"Mary?"
"Hm?"
"Isn't the sea bass to your liking?"
Her eyes darted to Richard's plate, the last bite of the bass on his fork. "Yes of course." He'd remembered it was her favourite luncheon food.
"You were pushing it around on your plate."
Mary speared a bit and brought it to her mouth, but sighed without taking a bite and laid her fork back on her plate, pulling her hands into her lap beneath the tablecloth.
"A number of the old country houses seem to be similarly afflicted. I suspected as much when I looked over Haxby's accounts that the situation was much like Downton's, and Mr Branson confirmed it. So it wasn't…"
She looked down at her hands and saw that her right thumb twisted the wedding band on her fourth finger so hard that the diamond of the engagement ring left an imprint on the pad. She curled her fingers into fists and held them still on her skirt.
"Papa truly did not manage it so terribly as I believed."
As Richard drained his champagne glass he looked out the row of windows that lined one wall, framed in green curtains and sharing the same view as his office. St Paul's rose above the rooftops of the Fleet Street newspaper buildings, towers of smoke chuffing from chimneys as the presses printed the evening editions. He slipped his hand inside his jacket, as if reaching into his pocket, only to withdraw it again, still empty.
"It's moments like this I wish I hadn't given up smoking." He looked at Mary, briefly, before becoming interested in the drop of champagne at the bottom of his glass as he tilted it on its stem. "You needn't feel you must redeem Lord Grantham in my eyes. His incompetence with regard to Downton is the least of the issues I take with him. In any case, I ought never to have spoken unfavourably of him to you."
Mary shook her head. "It's not what you said. Matthew was very quick to lay all the blame on Papa's shoulders. I suppose it's understandable. The blunder with Mama's fortune was entirely his fault. But..."
She thought of what she and Tom had discussed, in addition to land agents--Tom Branson, Socialist, Republican, making allowances for a member of the Establishment.
"Papa only managed the estate as he was raised to. As his father was raised to. As generations before him were raised to. Now that I know this I'm surprised Mathew came down so hard on Papa. He dealt with him more like--"
More like you would, she nearly blurted out, but caught herself in time. Her stomach twisted into a knot when she remembered how he'd said, You're on my team now. As if the future Earl were at odds with his predecessor. Forcing the future Countess to pick a side. And hadn't that been the centre of their dispute before the wedding? You're not on our side! she'd flung at him. Hadn't marriage to Matthew been meant to bring her and her family together?
"I never would have expected that from him, before the War."
Up until this point, Richard had been listening with an expression of bland interest, his head tilted slightly, but now he held it upright as his eyebrows lifted on his forehead. "What has the War to do with it?"
She was twisting her ring again. Did she really want to discuss this topic with Richard, of all people?
Then again, of all the people she knew, even those she loved best, Richard was the only one she could count on to be completely honest with her.
She took a fortifying drink of champagne and cringed; its sweetness was a good compliment for the meal but not the conversation.
"I presume war is one of those subjects for which feminine sensibilities are too fragile, and reserved for the men over port and cigars?"
"Generally--but do you imagine Lord Grantham and Captain Crawley were keen to discuss it with a known opponent?"
A valid point; Mary's cheeks warmed as she remembered how Granny and Papa blustered about the opinions he'd ventured to voice during that first weekend: He's not even patriotic!
"My friend Mr Napier has expressed views not dissimilar to yours," she said, feeling as if she ought to atone for the embarrassment she'd allowed herself to feel that he was not in uniform--though when they met at Cliveden she'd told him what a relief it was to see white ties and tails instead of redcoats for once. "He served in the cavalry."
"But they are dissimilar to your husband's?"
That was Richard, with his newspaperman's talent for cutting through the superfluity to get to the heart of a matter.
"I wouldn't know," Mary answered. "He never talked about it."
Her heart seemed to hang suspended in the breathless cavern of her chest as Richard studied her, and she tried to keep her face as inscrutable as his was. If he read anything on her features he gave no indication of it. After a moment be pushed back from the table, laid his serviette in the seat of his chair, and strode to the door which led to the anteroom of his offices. She heard him request that their plates be taken away and dessert brought, and as he resumed his place a young woman dressed in smart navy blue--not a maid, but probably one of the junior secretaries--efficiently did his bidding, replacing Mary's untouched sea bass with a slice of lemon tart for which she still had no appetite.
When the girl had gone Richard refilled their champagne glasses, taking a drink before he sliced into his tart with the edge of his fork.
"There's never been a war like the one just fought," he said, "so I couldn't presume to speak to what is considered normal behaviour for our boys who braved the trenches."
Mary had taken a bite of lemon tart to be polite, but the sweetness of it was diminished slightly by the hint of bitterness with which Richard pronounced the last.
"From what I gather," he went on, pausing to chew, "there is no normal. Some of them volunteered to fight, others were made to. Regardless of how they left, none of them came back the same. And I don't refer only to loss of limb or disfigurement. You remember that footman employed at Downton on my first visit?"
"Lang. He was a valet. He spilled soup all over Edith's dress."
"No doubt because he was shell shocked."
"Papa dismissed him because he wasn't up to the job."
"I won't fault him there, as I've had to let a few such cases go myself. Shell shock victims can be a danger to themselves, as well as to others. I'd rather not see my warehouse become the site of more War casualties because insomnia led to improper operation of the machinery, or the noise of the printing presses sent them into hysterics or worse."
"Mr Napier can't be around horses," Mary said. "Racing and riding were his life before."
"As I said, there is no normal."
Mary felt a little light-headed; she told herself it was the champagne on her relatively empty stomach, and not fragile feminine sensibilities. Though how anybody, female or otherwise, could talk about such things and not be affected, she could not imagine.
Perhaps that was why Matthew didn't.
"You must thank God you were in a position to spare your brother being called up," she said. "If you believed in God."
"Indeed. But we seem to have strayed from the topic," Richard said, crossing one leg over the other. "You think Captain Crawley suffered more than temporary paralysis, is that it?"
"I'm hardly qualified to say."
"Why? Because he didn't handle Lord Grantham's feelings with kid gloves?" His cheek muscle twitched, as if in the start of a smile. "I daresay the War jolly well did change him. He was an officer, for Pete's sake. Probably got accustomed to giving orders and having them obeyed without question. I rather relate to that myself."
He chuckled, but Mary silenced him with a look.
"I think I know my husband better than you," she said. "And yes, I am afraid he may have suffered more than he let on."
"I never knew you and him to have difficulty communicating."
It was late…and you two were locked together in the corner of the room, Richard's voice hissed from the recesses of her memory, and Mary retorted, as she had not that dreadful night more than two years before, "Unlike you and me? You were always marvellous at saying what you felt."
"I shouldn't have said that." Richard glanced away. "No digs at your husband, that was the agreement."
"No. You shouldn't. You ought to have told me you loved me before the end. You who can be called many things, but not a liar."
The words flew from her lips without having first formed in her mind, and as Mary heard them she pressed her fingertips to her mouth as if by doing so she could draw them back. It was too late. They had found Richard's ears, too. His face went very pale.
"There was another agreement, wasn't there?" he said. "Not to talk about our past?"
Mary swivelled in her chair, heedless of the serviette fluttering to the floor from her lap like an autumn leaf as she stood and turned her back to Richard and the luncheon table.
"I didn't mean to," she said, drawing her hand from her mouth just enough so that her speech would not be muffled, the tips of her fingers still touching her bottom lip. "This isn't about us. Or you."
"Isn't it?" The legs of Richard's chair scraped on the floor, and the soles of his shoes were ponderous with his slow stride toward her. "In any case you're right. I ought to have told you how I really felt much sooner than I did. And we should have talked about why I didn't before now."
If he could just admit the truth, all four of us might have a chance. Lavinia, too, had found Matthew's communication lacking, though Mary was not about to return down that dark path he had led her to feeling culpable for that young woman's sorrow and death. Thankfully, Richard was there to draw her back to present concerns--as he had been the horrible day they'd laid the poor girl to rest.
"But surely you already know the answer, Mary?"
She could feel the thud of her heart. "Because you knew I didn't love you."
"Right on the mark," said Richard, his voice low and hoarse. "If our feelings were unequal then we couldn't be equals. You'd have had an advantage."
So he'd kept the truth from her. Pretending that love was not a necessary ingredient for a good marriage, or hoping that she might grow to love him. Either way, he had sold at a loss.
"Would it have made any difference? If I had told you?"
"I couldn't have come to love you. Not so long as Matthew Crawley walked the earth."
"Thank you," he said quietly. "I appreciate your honesty."
Mary turned to him. "I didn't answer your question entirely."
Might it have made a difference? No church bells would have chimed in honour of Sir Richard and Lady Mary Carlisle, of that she was certain. But she'd meant it when she apologised to him for using him, and she wanted to believe that she wasn't so mercenary as to use a man who could actually be hurt by her. That she had learned something from the mistakes she'd made with Matthew all those years ago.
"If you'd told me you loved me," she said, "you wouldn't be trying to sell Haxby Park."